In The City
by shintas1st
Summary: "I'd told them what was going to happen, but they didn't listen. And look where they are now. Look where I am now." AU
1. Falling

**Disclaimer**: We do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. We make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

**A/N**: This is an entry for The ULTIMATE Collab Challenge! located in the Young Justice Fanfiction Challenges forum. This was made as a collaborative effort between 30secondstomarsfan101 and shintas1st.

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><p>Funny how time seems to stretch on forever when things go wrong, when everything twists itself inside out and you're terrified to take a single step because anything that <em>can <em>go wrong _will _go wrong, and it will go so far wrong that right will vanish like it never even existed.

His dad always remarks on the fact that he's not the kind of kid afraid to take chances and make moves. He also cautions him, warns him that there's consequences for every action, every path that he could possibly choose to take. As a result the boy has always thought himself more than capable of holding his own, but now... now he's not so sure.

"Ace?"

He knows he should be staying as quiet as possible, but whispering the shepherd's name will make him wag his tail against his side, and he _really _needs to be sure the dog is there beside him. His father has trained the dog so well that he isn't even audibly panting. Ace can be a shadow when he needs to, and now, tucked away in the back of an overturned minivan with _them _shuffling around about twenty feet away, they both need to be shadows.

The flashlight in the boy's hand is off but he presses the head of it against his stomach anyways in case his shaking fingers decide to accidentally tap over the power switch. Along with the dead cell phone and charger in his pocket is his switchblade, more of a security blanket than a weapon. They were the only things he'd had the chance to grab from his bag when the bus crashed.

The boy shudders at the memory, pressing his fingers along the outline of the folded blade. Despite the fact that a gun would be much more effective against the things that that horrible sickness turns people into, it still manages to soothe him. His father doesn't like guns, has never allowed him to touch one, and he doesn't plan on getting close enough to those things to use it anyways.

His fingertips feel sore and he knows it's not just because he rubs them over his jeans every few seconds to make sure the phone and knife are still there. He can't see the torn and bloodied nails in the dark, the skinned knuckles or the sliced palms, but he can still feel the dull ache and burn of the injuries. It's enough to make him cringe when the ripped fabric on the hip of his pants catches one of the small splinters of glass stuck in his skin.

He'd been spending a few days at one of his friend's houses; a boy named Wally. Wally, he remembers, lives... lived a couple cities away, the distance making it harder for the two to spend time together. Time they'd taken for granted when they were younger, closer, and safer. Wally had been so excited when he'd made the plans for a slumber party, they both were. Memories of smiles and the ever present scent of baked goods from his best friend's aunt's kitchen break under the thought that, ironically, he won't have to worry about whether or not they'd have time to spend together ever again.

Stopping himself from snorting derisively like he is so used to comes easily when he finds trying not to suffocate as his throat tightens and his stomach collapses in on itself much more important. Between the smoke and the lump in his throat it's almost impossible to breathe, fear the only thing able to stifle the wheeze before the air leaves his lungs. There's no doubt in his mind that the milky eyed creatures mulling over the wreckage of the bus not far off would pick up on the sound; he's seen them track down a kid- _Wally_- on far less.

He bows his head in the darkness and suddenly it's so much harder to lock the pained sounds down deep inside. He shouldn't have thought about that. Even in the pitch black quiet he knows Ace can tell how sharp of a turn his emotions are taking. The dog's head is pressed to his shoulder now, heavy and warm. Slim shoulders quiver and shake, but Ace's presence gives him the strength to drag himself to his hands and knees and breathe before things can get any worse. The nausea and dizziness subside soon enough and he wipes traces of tears from his eyes, searching for an escape route through slightly blurred vision.

He needs to focus. Why is it so hard to just pay attention to the obviously deadly monsters right in front of him? Stupid brain, there will be time to mope and cry later. At least, he hopes there will be.

The things sniff and rotate through the torn streets, seeming to check and make way for one another, searching for food and moving on but keeping keen eyes out for others who may be more lucky. More than once he's heard growls of warning erupt into snarls, and though he's grateful for the distraction the thought of what it is that they're fighting over turns his stomach.

Another scuffle and he moves, darting left and right, making sure to avoid the ears and eyes of the city's new inhabitants. Ace isn't too far behind, belly low to the ground like a wild thing stalking. The soft crackle of gravel beneath his feet sets his heart off like a bottle rocket though the sound garners no response and he sighs mentally, the relief dissipating when he remembers he still needs to find his way off of the overpass.

Thankfully the state of the actual bridge itself is sound, but with so much twisted metal and shattered glass strewn with gasoline it's anything but safe.

The boy silently thanks his father for influencing his choice in wardrobe, the dark colors that much more beneficial when fingers covered in sickly, bubbling skin curl against the bumper of a nearby pickup and slowly lower one of the sick to ground level. He freezes and Ace follows suit though the animal's hackles rise as he pulls his lips away from his teeth in warning.

The German Shepherd's body tenses, trembling with the instinctual urge to attack, but he hasn't been given the order and he waits. Even when his young master clenches trembling hands tight at his sides and forces himself not to take a step back. Even when the creature gurgles strangely, drawing in close enough to the boy to ruffle the clipped black bangs hanging low across his brow with a deep snort.

He's never seen one this close up before. The skin is oily and greying, bubbled and smooth in places and roughly patched in others. The wet snorts remind him of small children with runny noses though the yellow mucus threatening to spatter his face at any moment is laced with red and oozing from a near skinless nose. He can tell it used to be a woman despite the lack of hair and grotesquely afflicted body shape. She snorts again, inhaling the scent of dirt, oil, and smoke, and for once he's glad to be covered in filth. Scars run the length of her face and he briefly wonders if she was slashed by a bear. Whatever caused the wounds is his savior now; the mutated woman is completely blind and, unable to pick up a descent trace of his scent, shifts to move away.

He wants to sigh in relief but thinks better of it. He's not stupid. The deepest curse in existence, however, is not enough to describe the crude mix of acidic hate and fear that roils in his gut when her flabby bald form ceases it's turn to set blind eyes on him again. Perhaps she really can sense him there, or perhaps it's merely the hunger inspiring the rumbling in her belly that he can feel more than hear. Whatever it is, she utilizes her sense of touch, and disturbingly thin fingers attached to a fat jellyfish-like hand graze his chin and upward, catching his lips, his nostrils.

Terrified, he can't help but jump, alerting the thing with quick movements and nearly losing an eye for it. Her nails scrape painfully at his nose when he jerks back and then slash higher, raking burning welts just shy of his left eye. In the instant of panic he realizes for the first time since the crash that his shades are gone and marvel at how dark the world has become that he hadn't even noticed.

She looses contact with him as he scuttles away but swipes at him still, snarling, furious over the possible loss of food so close. In his flight he stays silent, praying that the others will ignore her sounds of anger, thinking she is merely bickering with one of her own kind. Her growls and screams, however, are of acute loss and frustration. They know she's found something, and they know that she's losing it.

He's barely to the guardrail when the sounds of chaos reach him. Hard cool metal slaps into his torso and he gasps for air, seeking out the ground below. The highway is a seventeen foot drop and just as littered as the bridge itself. All manner of grisly impalements and decapitations whirl through his mind in kaleidoscope fashion and he can't remember ever hearing Ace bark so loudly. In an instant he's moving again, the crunch of glass and grunts of exertion riding his heels and he knows if he looks back now it will be just like high heights and doing the forbidden -looking down- only to fall.

If he can just scale the next sedan, if he can ignore the mangled and burned corpse inside and hurdle over the guardrail, he can tuck and roll to the safety of the grassy hill separating the highway from the exit. Without thinking he leaps, one foot meeting the dented hood of the ruined car and launching him to the smooth surface of the guardrail only a couple feet away.

_'Balance, walk a few feet to safety, you can do it, it's simple.'_

Faintly the tick of Ace's nails scrabbling over the hood of the car reach him, and then a yelp and he turns, fearful blue eyes peering over his shoulder in the instant that he loses his balance.

The fall is barely a second but he has time to panic over the sight of the shepherd fighting to wrench his hind paw free of the grotesquely bony fist of the ex-toll collector. Somehow an inhumanely cruel spring of hope crawls it's way into his chest as his momentum allows him to try and gather his feet under himself. He tries to pretend it's like gymnastics, like he's taking a tumble from the horse and he can recover if he just _stays focused_.

But it's nothing like the horse. The ground is too far away, there's no protective padding to cushion his fall, and the remains of cars await his landing like so many eager hands. Asphalt rushes up to meet his sneakers and everything is wrong. The way the ball of his foot meets first, the way his toes succumb to the forced stop, the way his legs give beneath him, the way they _crack_.

There's a moment when he thinks he's dead. But then that thought gives way to the thought that if he's dead then would he still be thinking? Confusion parts the inky blackness like molasses and his face is resting on gravel and glass and everything hurts and it's hard to breathe. Something is pressing into his stomach and he doesn't know what it is. It troubles him that he doesn't have the strength to even whine but he hears barking in the distance, hopes desperately that he isn't hallucinating, and smiles deliriously at the dirtied sneakers coming to a stop inches from his face.

There's hands on him, turning him over, and this time he does whine, tears spilling as dried blood caked to the side of his face and matted to his hair gives painfully to the careful touch. How long has he been laying here?

"Ace?"

No, Ace doesn't have hands. Somewhere deep inside he wants to laugh at the thought. Ace doesn't have sneakers either. He's a _dog_.

The hands are back, straightening his legs as much as they dare while he's still conscious, and he's thankful he can't feel them; they look awful. Hazy blue eyes find the face of another -a girl, was she a sister or a mother, he would have liked to have had a sister he thinks- and his brows furrow.

"He's so stupid," the boy murmurs, the image of a freckled redhead flashing through his mind-_"Mind if I call you Robin?"_- what a stupid nickname he couldn't even fly. The girl doesn't answer, just takes his hand as he stares bitterly up at the overpass. How long has he been laying here? He suddenly misses his dad.

"Where's Ace?" His vision blurs and sways, and he swears he hears and echo of a question seeping into his mind. When he finally manages to focus again he finds her staring down at him sadly. She must not have heard the barking. Maybe he was hallucinating after all.

He wants to say something more, to at least hear the girl's voice. He's fairly certain she's real because he can _just _feel the warmth and pressure of her hand in his beyond the numbness creeping into his limbs. A shudder passes through him and he opens his mouth and yawns, and suddenly pain spikes in his jaw and being awake hurts and it sucks and he groans and screws his eyes shut.

A moment of silence passes and he relaxes slowly. He doesn't like the numbness, the lack of feeling, but the darkness manages to be scarier than the not-pain and he opens his eyes to look at her again. Her hair is so light it hurts his eyes but it's a good kind of pain. He can't feel how tightly he's gripping her hand but he can feel the dull aching throb of a headache at the backs of his eyes and that's enough for him as the lids grow too heavy for him to fight and he sinks into a wakeless sleep.


	2. Rising

**Disclaimer**: We do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. We make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

**Description**: This is part two of an entry for The ULTIMATE Collab Challenge! located in the Young Justice Fanfiction Challenges forum. This was made as a collaborative effort between 30secondstomarsfan101 and shintas1st.

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><p>The feeling of his hand in mine as he died was like a vice. But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel my body. I felt like I was cheating him if I were to do something like that. If I were to divert my attention even slightly to something else in this moment, it would be a sin, a disservice to him. A boy this young needed to feel like someone cared as he lay still, his heart beat fading until it eventually ceased. As his eyes were covered by his miraculously dirt-encrusted eyelids. It wasn't fair to him. But nowadays, this world is hardly fair.<p>

I waited for his pulse to stop, and then I gently uncurled his fingers from mine, standing up straight to survey the damage.

The ruins of Los Angeles, California still blazed with bright pillars of fire, and from somewhere in the distance I saw the dark shape of a hunk of debris fall from a once-symmetrical skyscraper.

A quote from when I was younger came to me in that moment, one that always used to confuse me.

_If a tree falls in a forest, and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?_

If I was the only one in this God-forsaken city, then I guess I must be crazy, since I was the only one to see and hear everything that went on.

Then again, I had always been more observant than most kids my age.

After all, I had been the first to notice the animals around me begin to act strange. I had been the first to notice that the birds were flocking together, that the animals that were lesser on the food chain were starting to get suicidal. I'd told them what was going to happen, but they didn't listen.

And look where they are now.

Look where _I _am now.

I focused back on the dead boy at my feet again, and knelt. I went through the motions almost numbly: Checking his pockets for anything useful, (I found only a small Swiss Army Knife) arranging his still and broken body in a more natural position, and praying for his soul, hoping for it to go to Heaven where I hoped it belonged.

I pocketed his belonging in the pocket of my ripped and dirty jeans, and then I stood again.

After looking around the area, I moved on. There was nothing else for me here.

As I walked I was still careful of my surroundings. I had no one to live for, but I still wanted to survive. I just wanted to be able to look back someday, laugh and say, "Wow, those times sucked!"

And maybe I'd marvel at the fact that I'd done it all with only my smarts, physical endurance, and a bow and arrows. That I'd lived off of something I'd read in my Honors English class in sophomore year: Have the courage to live, because anyone can die.

Maybe I was trying so hard because I just wanted to spite fate. I wanted to look it in the eye while I flipped it off, and let my now-dead dog pee on its' leg.

Ouch. That one hurt.

I stopped for only a moment to let the pain in my heart subside, because my mutt had been the only one whose death had actually hurt me.

I had no parents, no family to speak of. I lived in an adoption agency in the slums, I had no friends. At school, I was pretty sure that no one had been interested in me romantically. So, basically, I was all alone.

Once again, I wasn't trying to live for anyone. I just wanted to look fate in the eye while I flipped it off and let my now-dead dog pee on its' leg.

I crossed onto an intersection, and I even bothered to look both ways. It was morbidly funny, and I even smiled to myself. The world may be coming to an end, but at least I still remembered my road-safety rules.

The rumbling of my stomach interrupted my otherwise perfect moment of irony, and I stopped mid-step, looking down at it with a small frown.

Food. I needed food.

I stared around the gray, rubble-covered expanse of land to find any building that might have previously been a food joint. Three days was enough time for almost everyone in a huge city to either die or become infected with a strange new disease, but I doubted that all of the food would have spoiled or anything.

About 15 minutes later, I found a small gas station store marked with a sign that I couldn't make out. Some part of my mind told me that it was a Chevron, but at this point in time I could care less. I just wanted food.

I crossed the street, always cautious, and pushed my way through the strangely intact glass doors. The lights were off, unsurprisingly, but what made me take a step back was the fact that everything looked _normal_.

The shelves were still neatly aligned, the candy and other things was still stacked along them accordingly. There wasn't a hint of trash or broken glass anywhere!

But that was when I heard snuffling. _The _snuffling. I always associated that noise with _them_.

I stood absolutely still, blocking out everything but the sound. I finally targeted where it was coming from: The back of the store.

Silently, I pulled an arrow out of the quiver on my back, and fit it to my crossbow. I'd found both in a garage about a day ago while searching for food and supplies. I hadn't had much practice with it except for a yearly unit in gym class, but I forced myself to be confident with my aim and precision. I didn't have a second shot. Story of my life.

Rounding the right side of the store, more quiet than I had ever been in my life, I trained my sights on the creature. The thing that had once been human.

The flesh on its face had almost completely receded, leaving only its' nose to be covered in what seemed like an air bubble of skin. The pupils had lost all color, becoming white and pale. Blisters covered its' now-swollen arms and legs, and its' hair was completely gone. It was also bare naked. I had no idea of its' gender, nor did I care. There was no cure, so there was no hope.

The second it turned around and heard my arm pull back the bowstring, it leaped up and came at me.

I had previously been aiming for its' head, but now I decided that it wouldn't do any good. Instead, I feinted, ducked to the side as it passed me, and shot an arrow through its' huge stomach. It gave a bellow of pain and whirled around, strangely receptive eyes large with rage.

I wasted no time in retrieving another arrow and fitting it to my bow. I let it fly, aiming for its' neck, but I missed horribly and it instead collided with the drink machine directly behind and to the left of the creature. It hit the chords in the back that connected it to the wall, and sparks flew, catching on to different things and setting the most flammable items on fire.

I cursed under my breath as I watched flames devour candy wrappers and newspapers and start to lick across shelves.

While I had been distracted, the creature had slightly recovered, and swung at my head. I saw the sudden movement a second too late and ducked, but the blow still hit me on the top of the head.

As I stumbled back, pain filling my skull, my agony changed into rage. With a groan, I reached behind me, groping for another arrow. I'd show this thing who was boss.

Panic and annoyance channeled through me as I realized that my quiver wasn't there. Casting my eyes around quickly, I found that it was on the floor, about three feet away from me and a few inches away from the creature.

I weighed my chances quickly: Die like a coward, or risk it all. Obviously, given my life's new metaphor, I chose the latter.

Ignoring the new injury my head had received, I leaped to my feet and ran toward the creature. Its' blank eyes almost registered pleasure as it saw its' new prey coming straight into its' grasp. With a sadistic smile, I ducked and slid across the linoleum floor, straight between its' legs. I managed to just grab the quiver on the way, and, not bothering to waste any time, as soon as I was on the other side, I hefted an arrow out of it, gripped it in my hand so tight that my knuckles were white, climbed up onto the creatures' back, and stabbed it as hard as I could in the neck.

The blood flowed out like a bubbling fountain down its' back and shoulders and traveled over my arms. I had to hold my breath and close my eyes in order not to vomit. Just touching the stuff made me feel weak inside.

The creature bellowed, voice distorted because of the object that was poking through its esophagus, until it fell forward, life completely bled out of it.

I pulled the arrow out of its' neck, climbed off, and slid it back into my quiver. I did a quick head count. I had originally had about thirty arrows, and now I had about 25. I needed to be more frugal about them. If I lost all of them, I would be nearly defenseless. There wasn't much a lone 17-year old girl had to protect herself from disaster.

After examining my stock, I stood and looked upon my fallen opponent. Sadness coursed through me as I realized that, at one point, this thing had been human. It had felt emotion, had a family, maybe had even saved someones' life. Now there was no going back. It had been robbed of its' life-just like the boy I had found dying because of one of these mutated freaks. I felt sorrow for the human race. I didn't exactly like people, but that didn't mean I had no compassion or that I hated them.

While my attention had been elsewhere, the flames had spread farther, and the only thing that had brought me out of my stupor was the sound and vibrations of the drink machine I had hit with my arrow. Apparently, flames had crawled inside of it, and had caused it to blow a fuse. It exploded, sending shards of metal and plastic everywhere. Pain lanced through my thigh and I winced. So much for food. I needed to get out of here before the place came down on top of me.

I slung my quiver over my back, collected my bow, and ran towards the glass doors. I had to ignore the pain shooting up my right leg and in my head.

As soon as I was out of the gas station, I heard more things going up in flames. Wanting to get clear of the structure, I ran across the street, not even bothering to look both ways this time.

That was my mistake.

The pain in my leg and head was minuscule compared to the pain in my side as I heard the sharp crack of my body hitting a solid object, the squealing of tires, and a honk.


	3. Bottoming Out

**Disclaimer**: We do not own Young Justice, the comic or the show, or any of the characters associated with it. We make no profit from this work of fiction; it is purely for entertainment purposes.

**Description**: This is part three of an entry for The ULTIMATE Collab Challenge! located in the Young Justice Fanfiction Challenges forum. This was made as a collaborative effort between 30secondstomarsfan101 and shintas1st.

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><p>In all his years on the force the man has never felt a fear like this. His normally careful pace is reckless and fast, stoic features twisted in a concentrated mask that can easily be mistaken for anger. It hasn't even been a week and already the city is hell, life replaced by the dead, the dying, and the sick.<p>

The old dark grey '78 pickup races through the streets, doing more than enough to startle the beasts out of hiding. Normally the man would drive at a teasing pace, prowling like a shark, the engine purring low as he keeps a keen eye out for survivors. Now, though, there's one in particular that he has his mind set on, one that he knows he won't be able to forgive himself for if he doesn't find them in time.

Dark brows furrow over familiar piercing blue eyes and the man spares the phone sliding on the dash a glance. It hadn't lit up, it was only his imagination, a cruel trick of light reflecting off his side view mirror.

Seven blocks of flooring the gas and his anxiety finds an outlet like the black exhaust out the back of the car. He slows and slams the gear into reverse, doing away with the few blubbering creatures that manage to keep up with him, painting both the bumper and fender all manners of red and sickly yellow with a few admittedly vicious alterations between drive and reverse. Bone crunches beneath the heavy treads when he pulls off one last time, and he does his best not to let his thoughts stray to the possibility that he might have enjoyed ending them.

_Murdering _them.

"Murder," he whispers, the word enough to rein in the wild urge to back over the bodies again.

Only in defense.

Always in defense.

He picks up the pace again and wrangles his confusion over whether he should feel guilty about killing those things that used to be human to the back of his mind. Not here, not now. Those thoughts are best dealt with in a boarded room with a flashlight in one hand and a bottle of alcohol in the other.

The man glances at the still phone again and scowls, creases from years of sour expressions deep around his lips and hidden beneath a thin layer of stubble. Only a handful of numbers sit in the phone's contact list, the number of calls made and received easily ticked off on his fingers and toes. Not once has the device failed him; it is the reason for his outing now. The reason why his car is looping the death trap streets and, as he glances down yet again in hopes of seeing the name of his son flash across the screen, the reason why he doesn't see the hobbling teenager until she careens over the hood of his pickup and into the windshield.

By the time he thinks to slam on the brakes she's already pressed flat against the wipers, clothes catching and snapping them like twigs when she rolls back toward the grill and lands with a dull thud out of sight. He's startled badly but panic isn't quite quick enough to seize him. Immediately he's putting the vehicle in park, dreading the thought of it accidentally rolling over her, and missing the irony of what he'd just done to three of the unfortunate victims of the sickness only minutes ago.

He approaches her quickly and barely misses stepping on hair like wheat that's splayed about in haphazard streaks. The yellow of it is bright against the ground, beaten only by the growing fire in the gas station and the golden center lines painted onto the asphalt itself. Though he's never hit anyone before he's seen plenty of victims, and his body goes through the motions of checking for a pulse and prying open closed lids.

Thankfully she's still breathing but the wet rattle of each deep inhalation and the way her arm is bent nearly out of sight beneath her body makes his pulse quicken. All around there's arrows, actual bolts both whole and shattered into halves or worse. He doesn't have time to puzzle over the fact or anything else for that matter. The noise of the collision and steady roar of the blaze is attracting even more of them.

Hurriedly, albeit as carefully as he can, he rearranges the girl's limbs to make her easier to lift. Her eyes are still open and he's not sure if she's looking at him or through him, but he makes eye contact anyways, trying to keep her on the side of the living.

"Can you hear me? I'm going to move you now." If he is waiting for some form of approval he never gets it.

The man is careful to support her head and neck as he scoops her up, using a foot to open the passenger side door and prop her gently inside. The back of the seat is lowered a few inches to ease the strain on her injured body and he fastens the seat belt around her before bolting to the drivers side and starting the vehicle as quickly as possible. It purrs to life in seconds, giving him just enough time to pull up and around the corner of the street, the creeping mass of metal easily forgotten by the horde when the air pump at the station gives a piercing shriek of a whistle. They converge on it as if it were a dying animal and the car creeps away at an inconspicuous snails pace, eventually leaving the inferno far behind.

The darkness of the city settles slowly around them, side streets more welcoming than wide open intersections that still glow softly with traffic lights. Thoughts of helping the girl mix with resuming his search for his son, and he refrains from performing a u-turn, taking an alternate route instead on the way back to his sanctuary. Each turn and tap of gas and brake is reflexive and slow, thoughts of half a dozen other routes like this one dull in his mind.

Which one would be most likely to yield favorable results?

Which one would keep them out of harm's way?

Which one would he find his son and his dog creeping along, waiting for him to pick them up and take them back to one of the only safe places left in the city?

Only when he sees the familiar red cross of the towering building does he realize he's taken the most risky street; he's been driving toward the hospital. Every window is dark, glass either broken or a dirt streaked pane granting access into nothingness. His jaw clenches hard, tight enough to nearly lock. In every city afflicted, the sickness always starts here. The place meant to stamp illness out of existence has become it's breeding ground. Hints of movement ghost through the lot and the broken windows, and he wheels slowly away before they attract any attention.

A memorized map of the city flashes through his mind's eye and he glances at the still unconscious teen beside him. The wet rasp of her breathing is barely audible and he knows he needs to take her back now. Something shrivels in his gaze and his chest tightens, but he points the car deeper into the city, and even when he thinks _'Hold on just a little longer, please. I'll be there soon.'_ he knows he's just traded one life for another.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

Artemis wakes twice, once to the sight of the gruff investigator whose name pin reads 'B. Wayne' tending her wounds, and again to him lowering the still form of the boy from before into a supply crate in the corner. She can see the white glare of pristine sheets hanging over the edge, the lid propped against the wall lined with matching sheets that are fastened to the wood with industrial staples. The man's movements are slow and careful, and when he leans down to press his lips against the cold expanse of the boy's forehead he looks haggard and worn. It makes her uncomfortable to see the tear threatening to roll down his cheek and she averts her gaze, the only thing on her able to move without any significant pain being her eyes.

She scans over the room quickly, taking in the huge piles of supplies stacked strategically near boarded windows and the latch of a trap door near an overturned bookshelf by the kitchen. The room smells musky and wet, the stench of something rotting and decaying meeting her nose just as she lays eyes on the shepherd. At first she thinks he's dead, the great shaggy body near motionless where he lays, muzzle hidden beneath massive paws. But then he lifts his head and whines and his master does not protest his limping approach this time. He knows not to jump up on the box to try and wake his little master with licks again.

Outside, the small house's yard is barricaded by a hollow wall. Supply crate atop supply crate, once bundles of hope dropped upon the city and emptied for their treasures, now housing for the dead. Makeshift coffins of splintering wood and worn linen for the victims valiant enough to fight but not strong enough to live. The boy will be joining them out there soon.

_"Dick..."_

The name is a faint gravelly whisper and for a moment she mistakes it for the beginnings of a sob. Broad shoulders sag as if under pressure, and Artemis is not so sure the man isn't going to collapse. He leans heavily against the edge of the crate and it creaks, the sound loud in the silence of the room. The moment stretches on and becomes oppressive, and the teen represses the urge to whine, using her voice instead to call the man to attention.

"S-sir."

Recognition glows faint in his hollowed eyes and he comes to her side, a strong but clammy hand brushing her forehead, checking for a fever.

"Do you need water?"

"No... in my pocket, there's something..."

Artemis' fingers twitch as if to reach for it herself and he kneels beside her, picks the little bundle of metal from her pocket carefully, nearly dropping the object when his eyes settle on the crudely drawn bird and lightning bolt scratched into the red paint. He swallows thickly once, twice, curls his fingers tight and breathes hard through his nose. The girl's hand settles atop his as his eyes sting and water and he watches the faint traces of a sad smile grace her tired face.

She falls asleep shortly after.

Bruce retreats from the cot only after his tears subside. He stands straight, oddly small in the darkness of the room, mere slivers of his being illuminated by the cup candles situated about the shelter. Rooted between the bed and the box, the girl and his son, he bows his head and prays. Prays Dick didn't suffer long and for Artemis to pull through because, God, boxes shouldn't be used for that.


End file.
